Tulips in Winter
by ZanNaz
Summary: Two-shot. Chuck/Blair. A year after Bart's death.


A/N: A tiny two shot because I don't seem to want to update anything else. I wrote this very quickly and so there may be more than a few mistakes. Let me know what you think.

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**"I don't know much, the people I know don't know much. The people that those people know, don't know much at all."**

**PART 1**

It seemed to take days to find the right words, to find any at all. It felt like floating in a cloud. Each and every touch, though lined with daggers, was safer to him than all the loneliness he had wrapped around his body, willing someone – anyone really, to feel him underneath it all.

Bart had died. He had been orphaned as quickly as the seasons change sat upon the edges of New York City. She had held him all night; waded with him through his tears, told him that she would be there, the kiss he kept on his forehead, in his heart until it melted enough to be saved.

But he had been unable to stay; his legs itched for something else. And so, he had done all that he knew to do. He left a note, escaped in the middle of the night, failed to find meaning in as many bottles as he could grasp, paid for only to sit on empty benches and tip alcohol to his lips.

_Cheers father, to all you could have been and everything you weren't._

The dreams kept her image vivid but over time, they began to smudge, fade with a certainty he couldn't get back. The way a picture folds and creases, looses its colour. Not because the people had been mistaken, but the moment they had been there, together and happy, smiling in some far off distance - was less and less real.

It was on a pale morning in East Hampshire, sitting on a bar stool, drunk before noon, that he dared to forget what she felt like.

This realization was enough to push him up and out the door. It convinced him, even in the thickest of vodka stupors he needed to go back, needed to forge home with his hands, cradle her between everything they'd ever promised each other.

He didn't pack a suitcase, didn't worry about anything. The flight was long and his nervousness yawned inside of him. There wasn't one place he could think to look where eyes would welcome and feet would dance at his presence. One place someone might tell him where she was, and mean it in the thick floorboards of honesty, that she could be found there, as simple and beautiful as she was when he had left.

But the thought, although it dredged up no particular girl, was enough to go on.

The prodigal son returned but to no avail, and this he already knew. He climbed into the back of waiting car, slipped the sunglasses over his face, felt every nibble of cold in the air. Home but the idea was empty, like his arms, like the crumpled corners of his eyes.

He was lost for the first time.

"Chuck?" Serena's eyes were wide, bluer than the ocean. The door hadn't been slammed in his face.

He could see himself reflected, his stance, the lowly hang of his mouth.

"You're a mess," She muttered.

He nodded, ran a hand through his hair.

"I try," He said.

She seemed sad for him, unable to look at anything but the pieces, as though he had dropped them at her feet, asked her to figure out the puzzle.

He looked at her, peered really. A year had done little difference to Serena Vanderwoodsen. Her hair was longer, paler but she was still slim, tall. The all American.

"I want to know where she is," He said finally, just as she gestured for him to come inside.

Serena was struck by this, all so sudden and unexpected.

"Who?" She asked, even though they both already knew, "Blair?"

"Yes," He agreed, "Blair."

She was reluctant, unable to give him much at first.

They sat in the living room, drank tea and water, dragged out the silence until Serena broke.

She talked about the Waldorf penthouse where she emphasized he was not, in any way, welcomed. And then the party, where Blair would be tonight, they had arranged to go together.

"I tell you this," She took a sip of her tea, "In the strictest confidence. After everything that's happened …"

He nodded, stoic. "I won't say anything."

"I know you won't say anything," She replied. "I'm more afraid of what you might do."

"Nothing," He shrugged. "I just need to see her."


End file.
